


Season Ticket

by Glisseo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glisseo/pseuds/Glisseo
Summary: Children grow up, the giddy excitement of youth fades, and some traditions don't last forever. AU.





	Season Ticket

“Bzzzzzzzz bzzz bzzzzzz …. Bzzzzz bzzzz bzzz ….”   
  
It was the third time Harry had zoomed past her, looping around the kitchen table and zigzagging back upstairs, and Lily felt she had gone long enough without an explanation. She looked expectantly at her husband. He did not look up from his newspaper, which he was continuing to read as if there was nothing at all unusual about their son’s behaviour, but seemed to feel Lily’s eyes on him.   
  
“He’s being a wasp,” James explained.   
  
As if on cue, Harry burst into the kitchen again, buzzing excitedly.   
  
“We’re going to see the WASPS!” he cried, startling the cat from its perch on the windowsill. “We’re going to see the WASPS! We’re going to see the –”

“Who are you going to see?” asked Lily. “I didn’t quite get that.”  
  
Harry looked as though he might burst.   
  
“The WASPS!” he roared, hopping agitatedly from foot to foot. “SILLY MUMMY!”  
  
“Very silly Mummy,” James agreed, lowering his paper. Lily grinned at him, and he winked.  
  
“You’re not READY, Daddy,” said Harry wildly. “We have to LEAVE or we’ll MISS it.”  
  
“I don’t think –”  
  
 “We’ll MISS it.” Harry tugged on his father’s arm. “Get ready, Daddy.”  
  
Lily coughed pointedly.   
  
“Get ready  _please_ ,” Harry amended obediently. “Will you please a get a move on, Daddy? Thank you.”  
  
James’ face turned scarlet from the effort Lily could tell he was making not to laugh: he closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, then smiled winningly at Harry.   
  
“All right, little man. Let’s go and get ready, shall we?”  
  
“I  _am_ ready,” Lily heard Harry say as they left the room. “I’m  _good_.”  
  
 She was torn, several minutes later when her boys clattered downstairs, between amusement and affection: they were both clad head to toe in black and yellow stripes, almost identical but for over a foot between them in height: Harry’s garish bobble hat almost covered his eyes, and his scarf trailed on the ground, but he was beaming from ear to ear as Lily snapped a photograph.  
  
“Have fun,” she said, kissing them both. She knew it was no use telling them to be good; they rarely, if ever, listened.   
  
She often accompanied them to matches, but the Wasps, Harry and James’ team, were father-son matches, which Lily, who supported the Catapults, did not mind at all: Harry got so excited about attending matches with his dad, and she knew James loved these occasions. Today, the Wasps were playing in the final against the Magpies, and neither Harry or James had slept much out of anticipation. If the Wasps won, they probably wouldn’t sleep for a week.   
  
*  
Harry stared, open-mouthed.   
  
“We’re in the BOX!” he whispered, as quietly as his volume went (which was not particularly so). “Daddy! Did you know we were in the box?”  
  
“I did,” said James, grinning at the pure excitement on his son’s face. He clutched Harry’s hand – they were very high up, after all, and Harry had a tendency to be curious about these things – and led him to their seats. Harry gawked at the view: the stadium, filling with black, white and yellow-clad supporters, and the pitch they knew so well.   
  
“I say! Am I seeing double?”  
  
The stocky wizard who had approached them roared with laughter, then grasped James’ hand and shook it vigorously.   
  
“Harry, this is Hamish Macfarlan, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports,” said James. “Hamish, my son – Harry.”  
  
“Well, well, what a chip off the old block!” said Hamish jovially. “Looking forward to the match? Now –” he waggled a finger at their black and yellow outfits – “you’ll be supporting the Magpies, am I right?”  
  
Harry looked scandalised. “ _No!”_  
  
“He was joking,” James told him in a low voice when Hamish, chortling, had gone to take his seat.

“It wasn’t funny,” said Harry severely.  
  
*  
“THAT WAS A FOUL, COME ON, YOU – YOU POO –”  
  
“Language,” Harry rebuked his father, before his attention was diverted. “PENALTY!”  
  
They both waited, on the edge of their seats, breath held –  
  
“GOAAAAAAL!”  
  
“We’re sixty points up!” Harry cried gleefully. “If we got the Snitch now –” His eyes suddenly gleamed, and he pointed, jabbing his finger furiously - “IT’S THERE!”  
  
“What! Where?”  
  
“Far left!”  
  
James squinted at the furthest right-hand corner (Harry’s grasp of directions was somewhat skewed), but he couldn’t see the telltale flash of gold Harry evidently could. With a sudden thrill, he realised, however, that the Wasps’ Seeker  _had_  seen it.   
  
“He’s going for it!”  
  
Oakden streaked across the pitch – his opposite number took chase, but he wasn’t fast enough -   
  
“YEEEEEEEEEEES!”  
  
They were out of their seats, yelling, screaming, applauding –  _they’d won the Cup! –_ James grabbed Harry around the waist and swung him around, roaring with delight -   
  
“I’m DIZZY!” Harry shouted, and James set him back down, dazed. Harry’s face was alight: he looked as though he could not quite believe what was happening, but was overjoyed by it all the same.   
  
“This is the best day EVER,” he cried over the noise of the crowd, and suddenly hugged James tightly. “We WON, DADDY!”  
  
*****  
**Ten years later**

“You’re staring at me.”  
  
“And  _you’re_ not telling me what’s wrong.”  
  
James frowned at his wife. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”  
  
“We’ve been together for nearly twenty years. I can read you like a picture book,” said Lily. Her expression was gentle as she gazed at him from across the table. “Come on. Better out than in.”  
  
“That’s not what you say when I -”  
  
“That’s when it’s in our _bed!_ And don’t change the subject.” She stretched out a hand to cover his: he laced their fingers together, grateful for her warmth, but said nothing.   
  
Lily hesitated, then said quietly, “does this have anything to do with the League final tomorrow?”  
  
It was James’ turn to stare.  
  
“You never cease to amaze me.”

“Good.” Lily’s thumb was rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand. “So - you’re not going with Harry?”

“I dunno.” James slumped in his chair, feeling the weight of the misery, the uncertainty, that had plagued him for days. “He hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t really said much at all to me lately – he’s always in his room. I thought … I mean, I know we don’t go to all the Wasps’ matches anymore, since they’re mostly during term but – they’re in the final again! And I thought …”  
  
“That you’d go together.”  
  
“Well. Yeah.” James met Lily’s gaze: the intensity of it was such that his soul might well have been laid bare. He always had a feeling she could see right through him. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? He’s grown out of … me. I should just come to terms with that.”  
  
“No, you  _shouldn’t_ ,” said Lily forcefully. “He’s a teenager, he’s feeling a bit too cool for his parents right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s grown out of you. He’s just … he just needs his space at the moment.”  
  
James blinked. “I … yeah. OK. I get that. I just thought we’d always have Quidditch, you know?”  
  
“I know.” Lily had got to her feet: she moved around the table and put her arms around James. He leant on her shoulder, and she kissed the top of his head.    
  
“You could still go to the match,” she ventured after several minutes’ silence, but James shook his head at once.   
  
“No. No, I …” He trailed off, his eyes focusing on the mantelpiece, which had until now been blocked from sight by Lily. It was clustered with photographs, their family and friends waving cheerfully, and right in the centre stood a framed picture of Harry and James, fully adorned in Wasps gear, beaming at the camera.  
  
“It wouldn’t be the same.”  
  
*  
“Mum, have you seen Dad?”

Harry was skulking in the living room doorway, hands in his pockets: he was so tall these days that Lily had to crane her neck to see him properly. When she did, she almost choked on her tea: he was wearing a Wasps t-shirt, his old, beloved black-and-yellow scarf draped around his neck.  
  
“He’s in the garden …” She goggled at Harry. “Wh- why? What’s happening?”  
  
“It’s the Wasps match, isn’t it? They’re in the final. Dad didn’t say anything, but I assumed …” He shrugged, in a way so similar to his father that it tugged at Lily’s heartstrings. They really were alike:  _too_ alike.  
  
God, she wanted to  _shake_ them both.   
  
“I think you should –” she began, but the sound of the front door opening interrupted her: footsteps sounded, then James appeared in the doorway from the hall on the other side of the room.   
  
“Lily, d’you know where my –”  
  
He froze, gaping at Harry.  
  
“Dad!” said Harry. “You’re not ready!” He glanced exasperatedly at his watch. “We need to go, or …”  
  
“You’ll miss it,” Lily put in helpfully. Warmth spilled through her body at the look on James’ face as he realised: it was pure, unadulterated joy, and she felt her nose prickling when she glimpsed a tell-tale glimmer in his eyes.  
  
“I’ll get my things,” said James shakily. Harry, shaking his head, followed him out of the room.   
  
“You’re  _never_ ready …” caught Lily’s ears, and then she couldn’t hold the tears back any longer: half-laughing, half-crying, she went to get the camera. 


End file.
